


Shiver

by Nana_41175



Series: Taken [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Bossy Q, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Q takes care of Bond after a rough mission, Rough Kissing, a bit filthy (lol), taming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 04:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20772182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/pseuds/Nana_41175
Summary: Written for MI6 Cafe Challenge for Simple September. Prompt: Shiver.007 uncoiled himself from the chair and rose with fluid, dangerous grace. He came slowly forward, his gait a distinct, deliberate prowl, eyes unmistakably hungry, the rage still there, violence ready to be let loose at a moment’s notice.This was why Bond could not go home to their flat, to the cats, after missions such as this. This was why Q had to book these rooms, in hotels like this one, to contain him. To defuse him. Better to have him here where he could deal with him privately, away from people and prying eyes, but also away from the familiar precincts of home where they could not afford any disruption to their shared life, already so fragile, delicately balanced. There were things Q needed to do for him, and the first task would be to make Bond shiver.





	Shiver

**Author's Notes: **The Muse is itching to write some 00Q sexytimes and it will be a while before the juicy bits will be up for Taken, so I hope you enjoy this one-shot for now! Reviews are always welcome! XD

* * *

_Bastard,_ thought Q, fuming, as he left M’s office. _Bloody, sodding, hellish bastard._

He would have wanted to string along some more foul words, but his mind was still too caught up in the tumult of the past few hours and the upheaval and chaos that 007 had left behind as his assignment in Montenegro had gone spectacularly awry.

Still, 007 had accomplished his mission. He’d killed the terrorist who had previously taken down five British agents in Albania and by doing so, he had effectively disbanded one of the most notorious terror cells in the region, but it had come at the cost of 007’s equipment and the hideous aftermath of having swaths of Podgorica in flames. It was nothing short of a diplomatic nightmare, but given 007’s penchant for wreaking such scenarios, one would have thought that M had got used to it by now. It turned out he had not.

Now, after enduring a severe tongue-lashing by M over his seeming failure to rein 007 in, Q felt like he, too, could murder someone. He wasn’t even sure who deserved his string of swear words more: M or Bond. Both, actually.

Yet if he were to be completely fair, Bond could be excused for the way he’d flipped and gone off the rule book once again. Getting caught and tortured for nearly three hours before managing to break loose and turn the tables on the terrorists must surely count as a reason for the hell that 007 had subsequently unleashed. Added to that were the filthy taunts involving 007’s dead comrades the terrorists had lobbed at him, and no wonder the bastards had got what they deserved.

Now though, with the bloody mission accomplished, Q’s work was not yet finished.

007 would be arriving— Q checked his watch— make that _had arrived_, in London, about half an hour ago. And he’d promptly disappeared. Medical was expecting him. That much was clear after Q received a phone call from them. Perhaps the Quartermaster would be so good as to trace him via his Smart Blood profile, and—

“I’ll take care of him,” said Q.

Next, he dialed another number.

“The Egerton,” answered a woman in warm, pleasant tones. “Good evening.”

“Yes, room 3019, please.”

“One moment, sir.”

Q waited as he was connected to the room, the phone seeming to ring for an eternity before it was picked up. There was no reply, but Q was not expecting one. He could almost hear the quiet breathing on the other end, could almost smell the whisky on the man’s breath.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” was all he said before he hung up.

* * *

Q arrived at the small boutique hotel on the outskirts of Chelsea at half past eight. He walked through the well-appointed lobby and got into the elevator. He had his card key ready and he stared at his reflection on the polished doors of the lift as it went up. He counted the calm, even beats of his heart and willed it not to accelerate.

The key slid in smoothly and unlocked the designated door, all as expected, yet Q knew he was stepping into the unknown once he got inside.

He was stepping into the lair of a beast, and he was not sure what the outcome of this encounter might be, what state he would be in at the end of the evening.

It was pitch dark inside until he slotted his key into the appropriate receptacle by the doorway, and the lamps glowed to life.

007 sat slumped in one of the chairs facing the bed, one arm extended over the armrest, an empty glass dangling from limp fingertips. His tanned face had sustained some cuts. His features were still, yet he tracked Q’s movements with pale eyes that were clear and lucid and cold, despite the fact that Q could see that he was well on his way with the drink, which made him even more dangerously unpredictable.

Q sighed mildly as he stopped at the edge of the room to deposit his messenger bag into the nearest available chair.

“I hope you’re happy,” he said, voice deceptively gentle, “getting everyone into trouble like that.”

007 said nothing as he continued to gaze at Q with that cold, unsettling look, as if he might devour him.

“Granted, you got to eliminate the targets, but in the process, you lost all three of your firearms, not to mention the million-pound, custom-made armored car that was destroyed,” recited Q. “Then there was the mysterious explosion in Podgorica, along with the resultant fires. All done in a day’s work for you, in defiance of orders, as usual. I’ve only managed to pull all incriminating CCTV footage just in time and wipe your tracks clean. Still, they might be able to trace all the carnage to our doorstep, and I can imagine the Foreign Office will have its work cut out for them in the next few weeks. Well done on that point. And now here you are.”

As Q spoke, 007 uncoiled himself from the chair and rose with fluid, dangerous grace. He came slowly forward, his gait a distinct, deliberate prowl, eyes unmistakably hungry, the rage still there, violence ready to be let loose at a moment’s notice.

This was why Bond could not go home to their flat, to the cats, after missions such as this. This was why Q had to book these rooms, in hotels like this one, to contain him. To defuse him. Better to have him here where he could deal with him privately, away from people and prying eyes, but also away from the familiar precincts of home where they could not afford any disruption to their shared life, already so fragile, delicately balanced. There were things Q needed to do for him, and the first task would be to make Bond shiver.

“Stop,” said Q, voice firm, as Bond came within a few feet of him.

There was a moment when Bond looked like he might disobey and put forward another step. Q shook his head.

“You know how this goes, 007,” he warned, voice still level. “In here, you obey me. Or I walk.”

The threat was real. He meant it and Bond knew it.

007 brought his foot down solidly on the carpeted floor and stood in front of Q, feet slightly apart, hands on his sides.

“Good,” murmured Q. “Now, jacket off.”

007 shrugged out of his torn jacket slowly, his eyes never leaving Q. There was dried blood on his pale shirt, of course there was, but he’d been given a once-over during the flight back home and had been treated for his wounds. They had been relatively minor, given what he’d gone through.

There would be bruises though, plenty of them. Q would have to be careful where he touched him.

Q stepped up to him, closing the small distance between them, as he made to examine 007 carefully. He tilted his head as he leaned in, taking in 007’s scent. Superficially, he smelled of sweat and blood, his breath of whisky. If he wanted to, all Q had to do was sink his nose into the warm crevice of 007’s neck and he would be able to smell the rank, male, animal smell of him. He resisted the urge.

He lifted his head away when 007 moved suddenly to capture his mouth with his.

“No,” he said as he stared at 007 with lowered brows. “What did I say? In here, you do as I tell you. You’ve no power here. You move when I tell you to move, speak when I order you to. And you will be silent for the rest of this exercise until it pleases me to hear your voice. Is that clear?”

He watched, eyes stern, until 007’s hard, immobile features gave way minutely to a small, assenting nod.

“Very well. Hands behind your back, then,” ordered Q next, his gaze never wavering as 007 grunted, but did as he was told. 007 stared back at him, eyes still cold, though slowly lighting with sardonic amusement.

“Oh,” said Q, “do you think this is funny? Just as you thought lighting up half of Podgorica was funny, when we were scrambling like mad to get your arse out of the hellish pit you’ve created? Or perhaps you thought it highly amusing that I couldn’t get your Smart Blood signal for more than 10 minutes back there, and I thought you were dead?”

007 exhaled a breath as his look softened a fraction in contrition.

“Don’t make me worry like that again,” Q said, voice suddenly harsh, betraying an edge of tears as he clamped a hand over 007’s jaw, fingers as hard as his mouth when he brought it crashing against 007’s own.

They kissed, hot and messy, a savage thing of tongues and teeth, anger and need and desperation. Their sharp, wet kisses were loud and lewd in the stillness of the room. Q abruptly broke it off as 007 growled, attempting to gain more control as he angled his head to force himself deeper into Q’s mouth.

Q took a deliberate step back, running his tongue briefly over his lips to taste the last of the coppery salt and whisky. “You can’t touch me, otherwise, this ends,” he said, and watched as a small smirk curled briefly on Bond’s lips. Q could tell that he was enjoying this.

“Hands,” admonished Q as 007 shifted slightly. He waited until 007 settled back down into parade stance in front of him.

“Such a disobedient, naughty boy,” sighed Q. “There’s just no helping you.”

He reached out to flick open the buttons of 007’s shirt one by one, his gaze decidedly bored even as he felt his heart in his throat when he slowly unveiled Bond’s torso, dragging the open shirt down to tangle around his arms.

_“Oh.”_ He could not help the small exhalation, and for a moment, his neutral mask dropped.

There were so many bruises, it hurt Q to look at them. For a moment, he considered calling this off and bundling 007 straight off to Medical, but then he looked up to see Bond watching him.

_Don’t stop_, implored Bond’s gaze.

Q reached out a hand to drag soft fingertips from Bond’s mouth to his throat, then downwards still to touch him tenderly, lingering over the discolorations and bruised flesh. He followed with his lips, eliciting sighs and an occasional small gasp from Bond as he slowly worshipped and bestowed pardon on the man in equal measure.

Q slipped a hand to caress his back as his lips found a nipple. He felt Bond shudder as he swirled his tongue over the bit of flesh until it pebbled. He moved to the other one, careful to lavish the same attention on it as he felt Bond’s flesh harden incrementally beneath his touch.

He straightened and met those eyes again, now lidded, the coldness gradually dissipating. All the while, he let his hands roam over the familiar landscape of Bond’s flesh, his touch gentle save for the light drag of fingernails down, down his muscled abdomen and over the thickening bulge of him still covered in rough denim.

He felt the subtle change in Bond's breathing as he cupped him through his jeans, his touch harder now, fingers raking over his trapped, growing erection.

“Don’t think for a moment that I will go down on my knees to suck you,” said Q as he worked Bond’s belt open, his movements unhurried, almost leisurely. “Not after all the trouble you dragged me through today. You’ll get what you deserve, nothing more, nothing less.”

Q worked open the flies just enough for his hand to slip in, caressing Bond through his briefs. He heard the first low moan leave Bond’s lips, knew that he was doing things right as his fingers teased and smoothed over Bond’s clothed erection.

He heard Bond’s breath hitch as his fingers hooked over the elastic band of his briefs, pulling it down slowly to reveal him, already hard and aching. Q felt his mouth water. God, he wanted to _taste_ him, after all this time, but he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t give in.

He had to be in control here, for Bond’s sake.

Q reached out a hand to trail light fingertips over Bond’s exposed length, feeling him twitch and harden even more as the first bead of wetness dotted the tip of his stiff cock. He lifted his other hand to Bond’s face, watched as Bond moved to kiss his palm, tongue snaking out to lap at him, coating his fingers with precious saliva. Q felt each flickering movement of Bond’s tongue like a lick to his groin.

When he was ready, Q lowered his hand to grasp at Bond, wrapping his fingers carefully over his entire length before he tugged, a long, slow movement from the base of Bond’s prick to the head and back again. He stroked carefully, again and again, pausing only to spit and add his own saliva when it got too dry, his touch rasping against Bond’s sensitive flesh.

Let it never be said that Q did not know how to do filthy.

He could do it just fine, to gauge from Bond’s reaction. The man stood there, rigid as stone, his face locked in muted ecstasy, breath coming in quickly now and in tandem with the slide and pull of Q’s hand over his cock. Q gazed at him, wonder filling his heart as always at the sight of this powerful man and the feel of his flesh, hot and heavy and substantial in Q's hand. As Quartermaster, he was used to power; he dealt with it everyday. Yet having Bond this way was not about power. Q was touched and humbled by the knowledge that Bond trusted him and him alone to touch him like this and bring him back from the brink.

Q could tell that he was getting close. Bond’s head dipped forward, as though his neck could no longer support its weight, and Q let him settle his forehead on his shoulder as he moved in closer, wrapping an arm soothingly over Bond even as he continued with his steady ministrations.

“Come,” he whispered against Bond’s ear. “Come, James. Let go. It's alright. There’s no need to hold back. I've got you. You’re here now, you’re safe. Safe with me. Let me take care of you because you’re mine.”

Q tilted his head as James nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He felt James tighten further underneath his hands and he held him closer, milking him in a tight, warm grip as Bond let out a low groan and finally shivered, and shivered.

And shivered.

When it was over, he slumped into Q’s arms. Q was ready for his weight, heavy and warm and welcome. He gave one last, fond squeeze before he released him. He looped both arms around James, holding him close. Breathing hard, they kissed, this time slow and sweet.

“Q,” Bond murmured.

“James,” Q said, smiling in relief as he tilted his head back to gaze adoringly at blue eyes that belonged fully, once again, to the man he loved. “Welcome back.” 


End file.
